Savage Kiss

by Roberto Saviano

  She knew the real reason: it was grace from on high. She clasped her hands together and mentally prayed to the Madonna, she prayed to God who had come down from on high to give her and her son a second chance, while the passenger beside her was already turning the page, covering up the headline that attributed to Micione the murder of Crescenzio Roipnol:

  LOCAL FAELLA BOSS WHO HAD BETRAYED THEM

  KILLED BY THE CLAN FOR HAVING SUPPORTED THE PIRANHAS

  THE MORTGAGE REVOLUTION

  “Your papà called.”

  Nicolas was sitting in an armchair, his face buried in his cell phone.

  “Ah, so he’s still alive? And what’s he looking for?” The answer came out instinctively, driven by his anger at the words he was reading. He ran his thumb over the news, and every article had the same version of events. It had happened again. Micione had claimed credit for Roipnol’s murder, too, just as he had done with ’o Mellone, the piazza boss whom Nicolas had murdered in order to send a message to the people of the neighborhood. Back then, he’d been able to shout, “That’s my work, I pulled off that job!” And he could shout it again now—“That’s our work, we did that job!”—but he’d need to find a better way to say it, a way that would do the most damage.

  Mena let a few moments of silence go by, so that her son could get it through his head that, in spite of everything, he still needed to show a little respect for his father. At last, she told Nicolas that his father had kept her on the phone for a full fifteen minutes.

  “He’s late on his mortgage but the bank manager told him that these matters can be resolved.” She sat down on the armrest of his easy chair. “The manager wants to meet with you. Maybe that’s a good thing for us.”

  “Meet me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “But what could he want to talk about?”

  “How would I know? Maybe money,” said Mena, rubbing forefinger and thumb together suggestively.

  “All right, Mammà, tell Papa I’ll go, but I’m not going alone. All my brothers have to come with me.”

  * * *

  They arrived at the bank looking like eight grooms ready for the altar. Some of them had navy-blue suits, others wore black, and they all wore ties. Biscottino had stuffed himself into his suit from his first communion, while Briato’ had gone so far as to put in a pair of blue contact lenses to make his gaze even more riveting. Only Drago’ wore his usual clothes, a pair of tight jeans and an artfully faded T-shirt. On the paranza’s chat, Nicolas had explained that they had been summoned by an important person, good things might come of this. Not even for an instant had the idea passed through his mind of going alone. It was all of them or none of them. It was about money, and the paranza’s money was a subject of discussion for all of them together, even if some of them—and here Nicolas gave Drago’ an extended glance, from head to toe—hardly seemed to share that opinion.

  A security guard, clearly on the verge of taking his pension, peered out through the glass, and when the first of them set off the metal detector, thought he might be about to have to use the pistol that had never been fired since it was manufactured.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Nicolas with a wink, “I’ve got this under control. It’s pinging because my dick is made of steel.” The kids burst into a loud round of laughter that undercut the tension of finding themselves in a setting where they didn’t know the rules: none of them could ever have imagined that their first experience of being in a bank would be to walk in through the main door, stripped of their “girlfriends.” Nicolas took a step forward and pulled out the keys to the TMAX. One after the other, the members of the paranza rid themselves of their metallic objects—chains, bracelets, lighters, electronic cigarettes, coins. At last, they were permitted inside. People were waiting in line, while the tellers counted out banknotes and typed rapidly on keyboards. Tidiness and order, that’s what the bank reeked of.

  “What now,” said Drago’, annoyed and in a loud voice, “do we have to stand in line?”

  “It’s all taken care of. Come on, come right this way.”

  The manager, thought Nicolas. Drago’ was the first to head off after him. He was curious to know just what Nicolas planned to do with his money. He body-checked the security guard with his shoulder and turned down a hallway, followed by the others, who filed past, waving into the video cameras.

  “You’re all over eighteen, aren’t you?” asked the manager as he sat down in an office chair that actually looked more like an armchair. He didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Nicolas Fiorillo had shown up with his entire gang.

  “Sure,” said Briato’, and all the others followed suit, affirming their age in chorus.

  “No,” muttered Biscottino, alone in replying in the negative.

  “All right, all right, that’s enough,” said the manager, without paying any mind to that guy with his hair in a mohawk, and then he ran his fingers over the mustache he didn’t have. He was so tanned that his flesh practically glittered, and Nicolas immediately felt an intense surge of dislike for that fat little banker, that chiattillo.

  “Forgive me if I lured you here under false pretenses, so to speak. You know, you’re quite famous in the city and I always keep my eye out for the up-and-coming players in the territory.”

  “Players?” Pesce Moscio asked.

  The manager ignored him. “Let me get to the point, Nicolas Fiorillo, or should I call you Maraja, which is how everybody knows you. Your considerable liquidity runs the risk of being counterproductive. I have a solution that can satisfy everyone. Win-win.” He emphasized the unfamiliar phrase in English.

  “Ua’, listen to the fucking way this guy talks!” said Pesce Moscio.

  “Let him talk,” said Nicolas, encouraging the man to continue.

  “Very good. As you know, liquidity is the real problem these days. Those who have too much, and those who have too little. Our lending institution has plenty, heaven knows, we’re perfectly solvent, but on the weekends our ATMs are having trouble; how can I put this, they’re running out of oxygen.”

  Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad, thought Nicolas; after all, he didn’t talk all that differently from them.

  “Here’s our offer: we hold on to your cash, which we’ll use to supply our ATMs, and in exchange we’ll underwrite mortgages for your families. You give me a hundred and twenty, and I’ll return a hundred to you, brand-new bills, fresh from the mint. That leftover twenty is our commission, the cost of the dry cleaning.”

  “But I want my own account!” Lollipop said instinctively. The others nodded in a buzz of voices.

  “I want American Express,” said Tucano.

  “I want Visa,” said Briato’.

  “But why would you want to give a gift to the tax office?” said the manager, trying to make them listen to reason.

  “But with the money that we bring you, you don’t just fill up your ATMs on Saturday. You fill at least another four. So?”

  “So your parents come in here, and we’ll set up a mortgage for them. The money comes in on one side, and then we hand it back out to your families.”

  “Maraja, I don’t trust him,” said Biscottino, and the other members of the paranza grumbled in agreement.

  “Guagliu’,” said Nicolas, “he’s offering us money laundering.”

  The manager threw both hands in the air, as if defending himself. “What a thing to say, Maraja!” Then he turned to Biscottino: “Close that door, if you please. More than anything else, it’s about helping your parents. The money remains yours.”

  “I’m in,” said Nicolas. It was a win-win opportunity, the manager was right.

  “Me, too,” said Drone.

  “So am I,” said Briato’.

  They all seemed to agree. “So, basically, we’re in agreement,” Nicolas summed up.

  “Very good,” said the manager, “the procedure is quite simple, first of all—”

  “But why would we want to give our money to our parents?” Drag
o’s voice interrupted him, after remaining silent until that point. “No disrespect, boss, but my family won’t do a fucking thing with a mortgage.”

  He was the only one of them who lived in a house that was paid for, and his mother had no trouble making ends meet. They lived pretty comfortably, all things considered, even though certainly not the way they’d lived in the days before his father, ’o Viceré, had had his reputation ruined by a miserable informer uncle of his; why should he give up any of the money he earned?

  “Gentlemen,” the manager explained, “this is only a proposal. If you’re not interested, no problem. Friends like before.”

  “That’s fine, friends like before,” said Drago’, and he turned and left the office.

  Nicolas went right after him, and the two of them started arguing, impassively, in front of the other customers.

  “Nico’, but they’re making fools of us here. Do you really think they’re doing us a favor? These guys will just take our money and we’re even supposed to hand over a percentage to them. And then they come up with this bullshit twist of giving the money to our parents.”

  Nicolas leaned in, nose against nose. “No, didn’t you understand? We’re walking into a bank. Of course they’re going to fuck us, aren’t they? That’s just the way things work, Drago’. You’re either fucked or you’re the fucker. And right here and now, they’re fucking us, but that’s okay. They take the dirty money from the piazzas off our hands and then they give it back to us, nice and clean, to put in our wallets.”

  “Why do we give a fuck about whether the money’s clean or dirty, legal or illegal? It’s not like somebody takes a look at a fifty-euro bill and asks, ‘Is that a legal fifty-euro bill?’ It’s just a fifty-euro bill. They’re stealing our money with the excuse of making it legal.”

  “Eh, no, Drago’, if you think like that, we’re just stuck being a two-bit little paranza, and small fry they can fish with a rod and reel. We’ll never get anywhere. We need to be able to walk into banks. That’s the path to follow. Make our money work for us.”

  Drago’ didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he decided to give it a try, and went back in with Nicolas.

  They agreed to bring in the cash the following day, then it was time to say goodbye.

  “Arrivederci,” said Nicolas, extending a hand.

  “Who are you?” the other man replied. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure…”

  “What do you mean, who am I?” Then he saw the smile on the bronzed face. “Oh, right, of course, we’ve never met.” Then he looked up at the video camera. “What about that?”

  “No worries, it isn’t working today,” said the manager. “It’s been giving us trouble for a while now…”

  * * *

  A few days later, Tucano showed up at the bank, accompanied by his parents. The manager came to welcome them and ushered them into the usual office. He’d already prepared all the documents, marked with Xs where Tucano’s parents were supposed to sign, their faces bewildered and ashen with disbelief, like someone who’s won the lottery but just can’t wrap their mind around it. As soon as they got home, the two of them emptied the master bedroom and gave it to Tucano so that he’d be more comfortable, with the hours he was keeping. They moved into his little bedroom, thus sanctioning on the basis of profit a switch in roles and status in the family hierarchy.

  After them, it was the turn of Briato’s and Drone’s parents and Drago’s mother. Pesce Moscio brought the bank documents home, waving them in the air, with the words: “Mammà, they gave us a mortgage!” The reactions were all the same. Tears and hugs, heartfelt thanks and still more tears. At Stavodicendo’s home, a letter arrived by certified mail: his father was out of his mind with jubilation and he threw his arms around his incredulous wife, stunned by the gift that made the fact that their little boy was wanted by the law a little less of a bitter pill to swallow. “My son,” Lollipop’s mother went on repeating, now that they could buy the building that housed the gym and expand their business, “my son, my son, my son…”

  Biscottino had returned home with his backpack overflowing with brochures from the bank, brochures that offered an array of investment possibilities. He had left the documents for the mortgage, on the other hand, in a folder on the table, open to the page with the amount being financed. Eighty thousand euros.

  Greta had noticed the file immediately and she’d understood everything even before Eduardo started blathering confusedly about money, mortgages, and banks. She’d closed the folder and told Biscottino that she couldn’t stand being made a fool of.

  “Ma, it’s all true, trust me. Now we can buy a real apartment!”

  She’d slapped him in the face. “This is a real apartment!”

  Since the day she felt she’d been pardoned, she’d become that much stricter with him. She’d given up on the program of protection, but the social worker never tired of telling her it was dangerous to go back, and said she’d already discussed the case with the police (though she didn’t admit it to her, she’d also mentioned their names), shouting that she couldn’t change her mind now.

  Instead, she most certainly could, she told herself: first of all, that was the only path, and now it was no longer necessary. Emma, too, kept calling her, asking her to rethink it, or else she’d swing by the house to see her, but she was certain. She was so confident of her decision that one night, on her way to the hospital to start her shift, she’d detoured down to the port. She’d worked her way as close as possible to the sea, made sure that nobody but the seagulls were there to witness what she was doing, and she’d reached into her purse and pulled out a bundle of rags and tossed it into the water. She’d wrapped up that rough bundle of rags to make sure she could forget that contained inside it was the pistol her son had used to commit murder. The ball had floated on the surface for a few seconds, then it had unraveled, letting the pistol drop to the seabed. Now Eduardo was no longer in danger, as long as he behaved properly. Instead, rather than behaving like a little lamb and staying out of trouble, he had brought her that patent fraud of a mortgage, which clearly involved the Piranhas, and this alone was an outrage in the face of Providence itself.

  Nicolas, in contrast, rather than going directly to Mena, had dropped by the clothing shop across the street from her cleaning-and-pressing shop, with its umpteenth owners in the course of just a few months. He walked in with a bag full of cash.

  The new owners were a couple of newlyweds with a chihuahua that spent all day in the doorway. He found them behind a glass counter, folding the items to be put on display.

  “Here you are,” said Nicolas, putting the bag on the counter. “This is for you.”

  “What do you mean, what’s happening here?” asked the proprietor, shifting his gaze from Nicolas to his wife.

  “What do you mean, what’s happening? Open the bag, why don’t you?”

  An untidy mass of cash poked out of the open zipper. Every last banknote was a hundred-euro bill.

  “Well?” said Nicolas. “After all, this shop is going out of business, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said the proprietor, and before he could add another word, his wife had grabbed him by the wrist.

  Nicolas noticed and said: “Listen to your wife. This shop is going under. Take the money and shut up.”

  “But the store is worth more.”

  “Eh, I know it’s worth more. But then what if it burns down? Then it stops being worth not very much and becomes worthless.” Nicolas liked doing things alone, without any need to have his brothers around him.

  The owner took the money and turned and went into the back of the shop.

  Nicolas was leaving, and the lady went so far as to hint at a thank-you: “As long as you make sure we have no trouble, Nico’.”

  “You have my word.”

  Nicolas crossed the street at a run, scampering like a little kid, back when he heard that his father had come home and that his parents were getting ready to leave for the campin
g site in Minturno. Just like when he couldn’t wait to climb into the car, him, Christian, and his parents.

  He walked into the pressing shop practically laughing: “Mammà, here you are, washing and ironing clothes, and over there”—and he pointed to the clothing shop—“you’ll be selling them.”

  Mena was radiant. That son of hers never made a mistake, he really was special.

  * * *

  Mena knew where her husband was holed up. He’d bought a one-bedroom apartment in Vasto. It was on Via da Forcella and close enough to the station for him to be able to kid himself into believing that one of these days he’d hop on a train toward a new life, or at least that’s what Mena thought. She found him waiting for her in the doorway. Mena restrained a smile; they looked like a couple trying to put things back together after an episode of cheating. Instead, what hovered between them was a death in the family, followed by his act of cowardice, and now the embarrassment of those unpaid mortgage payments.